Let's Do It, Let's Fall in Love
by thebarefootflapper
Summary: In 1924, a letter from one of Edith's readers takes her back to a time when she thought her shattered heart could never be mended. She wants to forget about it, but her sister and brother-in-law refuse to see her go down without a fight and set about concocting a plan to put right what should have been sorted years ago. EAST contribution.
1. The Cat's Pyjamas

_**This is the first of about three or four short chapters for my contribution to the EAST Alliance over on Tumblr. I've never really written Edith and Anthony in any great deal before so I hope I do them justice. Edith and Tom are two of the reasons why I'm still invested in Downton and they deserve every happiness - I just like to think that I (as well as the incredibly talented writers in this fandom, of which I am not one and I bow down to you) can give them just a little bit of that through fanfiction. As well as Sybil and Anthony, obviously. Enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

It was the summer of nineteen-twenty-four when Edith Crawley realised that it might be third time lucky when it came to her happily ever after. That wasn't to say that she was unhappy, far from it in fact, but despite the life she had built for herself, she had to admit that it felt as though something was missing. Her ill-advised affair with her married editor had come to end the Christmas just gone, both agreeing that it was for the best and that she and Michael should go their separate ways. Their relationship had continued on a professional level but even Edith knew that it wouldn't last - she'd contemplated the idea of going freelance but wasn't sure that venture would generate enough income to continue renting her beautiful little flat that she had come to love so much these past couple of years. It was her own space, with furnishings and ornaments that she'd found herself on leisurely Saturday mornings spent browsing many of the city's markets and quaint little antique shops. Her favourite books lined the shelves as well as photographs from her life at Downton - the most recent had been taken at her niece's fourth birthday party just a couple of weeks earlier and was of the little girl herself trying to feed Isis some cake. She hadn't needed to worry though as Tom, dearest darling Tom, had put her in touch with a friend of his who was an editor for a small, independent magazine but who was always on the lookout for emerging talent.

Beatrice Beaumont is a stunningly beautiful woman in her mid-thirties, always one step ahead of the latest trends and fashions, who smokes like a chimney and drinks like a fish.

"Tell me, Eddie," she asks in a raspy New Jersey accent as she puffs on a cigarette. "What's a doll like you doing hanging round the likes of Michael Gregson?"

Edith stares down into the milky depths of her teacup. "I'm not," she replies solemnly. "It was over a long time ago." She's used to Bea's odd turn of phrase and the frequent use of her nickname now and, truth be told, Edith rather likes it. Not everyone agrees with her though, for she'd forgotten where she was the last time she'd visited her family and asked about Matthew's "new breezer" when wanting to find out more about the car he'd just bought. Everyone had fallen silent and stared at her as though she'd just spouted a second head which, of course, had made her blush with embarrassment and then correct herself.

"But why him?"

Edith shrugs. "I've not been very lucky when it comes to love," she admits. "I suppose Michael was the best of a bad bunch." She tells Bea everything then, from her childhood friendship with Patrick to her brief crush on Matthew. From John Drake to P Gordon and, finally, Sir Anthony Strallan, the only man she's ever truly loved.

"He's a fool," says Bea as Edith comes to the end of her sorry tale. "But I think I've found the subject for your first series of articles."

"And what's that?"

"You, darling."

Edith's gaze snaps up and she looks into her editor's jade coloured eyes. "Me? But why would anyone want to read about me? I'm the plain one, the middle sister nobody pays attention to..."

Bea scoffs. "Eddie, dearest, you're hardly plain," she says (it's well known that Bea prefers the company of other women to gentlemen and makes a point of commenting upon Edith's striking if not slightly unconventional beauty to anyone with whom the pair found themselves in company). "But, in sitting on the sidelines, you've seen another side to the world. Tell my readers... **our **readers about that. The modern woman can do so much more with her life now than just to sit around waiting for a husband, but you're an Earl's daughter and that's just what everyone expects you to do. Write about what it's like to balance the two in a post-war society where men are scarce but there's liquor and jazz in abundance. Tell us about your heartbreak... inspire people to aspire. You're the cat's pyjamas, Lady Edith, I know it and the readers will know it... one day, you'll know it too."

**_-xxx-_**

It takes time, but Edith finally gets into the swing of writing much more autobiographically than usual. She hadn't been sure at first, but she'd made the decision to publish using a nom de plume and changing certain names, seeing as how some of the things she would be writing about were incredibly personal. Each and every week, the magazine's offices are flooded with letters from women up and down the country relating to the plight of their newest heroine. Gossip is rife all over London as to who this mysterious author could really be and it puts a smile on Edith's face as she sits in the corner of a quiet little cafe, smoking a cigarette and drinking tea as she listens to the women at the table beside her gossip and giggle over something that she'd written, not because they pitied her, but because they found her to be genuinely funny. She feels liberated in a way that she never thought possible, finally able to say the things that had been burdening her for years now. It had been different when she had begun her career in journalism, where she'd been paid to offer her views on an all manner of things from current affairs to the latest fads, and she truly felt that her anonymity had given her a new sort of freedom.

She picks at the slice of bara brith so lovingly prepared by the Welsh proprietress every morning and is yet another thing about life in London that Edith has come to adore, turning her attention to the last of the envelopes that had been handed to her this morning. She furrows her brow, the handwriting seeming oddly familiar to her somehow. Then again, she supposes, how many different styles of handwriting could there possibly be? She's read so many letters recently that there's bound to be some which look the same but, as she reads, she begins to realise that she's more acquainted with this particular hand than most. It's from a gentleman who confesses that he hadn't actually heard of this particular publication before, but hearing it mentioned around town and in his newspaper of choice had convinced him to give it a read. That was when he had come across her story about how she had been jilted on her wedding day and admits to doing the same to his bride to be - it's the biggest regret of his life and, if he ever saw her again, there wouldn't be enough words in the English language to convey just how sorry he is.

Edith's heart is racing, her palms sweating as she continues to read, the post-script at the very end confirming her suspicions and making tears well up in her eyes.

_I know it's you, my sweet one, though I'd understand if you never wished to see me again._

She stuffs the letter into her handbag and swiftly exits the cafe, breaking into a run despite the impropriety of it all as she goes in search of the one person in this city who will give her an honest opinion...

Sybil.


	2. Balled Up

_**The response to the last chapter from both sets of shippers was absolutely incredible and I thank you so much. To the E/A shippers, I really hope I'm doing these characters justice - I don't read much fic that's centred around them, but I know that there are so many talented authors out there, just as there are among those who write the Bransons and so I know I can't compare but I thought I'd just give it a go. I'm sorry for the delay in this chapter but if any of you are following me on Tumblr then you'll know that I've just had the busiest week ever and it's showing no signs of easing off. The maximum number of chapters this is going to get to is five, but I'm not sure when an update will come (though I assure you it will eventually). All the chapter titles are based on 1920s slang words and phrases - this one, 'Balled Up' means to be confused or messed up, which I think is precisely how Edith's feeling after receiving Anthony's letter. This one is mostly S/T, but both couples will start to come together in the next chapter so, please, just stay with me no matter how long it is before that materialises. Enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

Sybil was always happy to see her sister, even when her visits were unexpected. Even though this was one of her rare full weeks off, since moving to London just over a year-and-a-half ago when Tom had been offered a job at one of the city's newspapers, she had chosen to work on a part-time basis, deciding that she wanted to play a major part in her little girl's upbringing until the time came for her to start school. She and Tom still only had the one child; their daughter's birth had been so incredibly traumatic for all involved, the lives of both mother and baby almost lost, and so both parents had been incredibly reluctant to try for another. Thankfully, they'd both pulled through and little Aoife Grace Branson had filled their lives with so much joy who now, at just turned four-years-old, was growing stronger and more beautiful with each day that passed. Her aunts doted upon her and Cousin Georgie was more like a brother to her than anything - even her Grandfather couldn't resist those big blue eyes of hers (and Aoife knew from Daddy's bedtime stories that Grandpapa Robert was a grumpy old king with a heart of stone, something which she'd told him once when they'd visited Downton, leaving both Sybil and Tom absolutely mortified).

"Ed!" Aoife squeals with delight at the sight of her aunt at the door - she has a rather advanced vocabulary for one so young, but there are some names she just can't wrap her tongue around yet, 'Edith' being one of them.

"Hello, my darling," she beams back at her niece, kissing the top of her wild brown curls so very much like her mother's. "And how are you?" she asks, turning to her sister.

"Exhausted," Sybil sighs. "I don't know where her energy's come from these past few days. I'll have to check she's not managed to get hold of some of Tom's coffee again."

Edith laughs. "She takes after you, you know," she tells her. "Causing chaos wherever you went."

Sybil shakes her head. "I wasn't that bad."

"Oh, you were," her sister replies. "Just wait until Aoife's older... the stories I have to tell her."

"Just as long as they don't give her any ideas," replies Sybil, putting her daughter down on the floor and reaching down to hold her little hand. "Come down to the kitchen," she says. "I'll make some tea."

"I think I need something stronger."

Sybil raises her eyebrows. "Bad day?"

Edith shakes her head. "Not as such," she says. "But I really need your help."

**_-xxx-_**

It's difficult to read a letter with a four-year-old squirming in your lap, but Aoife is easily pacified with one of the ginger biscuits she'd helped her Mama to bake this morning and so remains both still and quiet as Sybil tries to make sense of what she's reading.

"Are you certain that it's him?"

"He's the only person who called me that," replies Edith. "And only ever in private. Nobody else knew he used that particular term of endearment."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know, I'm so balled up... what do you think I should do?"

Sybil sighs and runs a hand across her daughter's curls. "Write back to him."

"I can't."

"You asked me what I thought you should do, and I think that you should write back to him."

"No," says Edith, shaking her head. "I quite literally can't. There's no address to write back to. It was obviously done on purpose so that I couldn't find him... he did say that he would understand if I never wished to see him again."

"Ed sad?" Aoife asks, having finally finished her biscuit.

"A little bit, yes."

Aoife looks up at her mother with that same quizzical look in her eyes that Tom has. "Mama, why is Ed sad?"

Sybil looks over at Edith who nods - there's no point lying to the child, because she'll just keep asking questions until she gets a real answer and so they've all found their own little ways to give her much simpler versions of the truth. "Because, a long time ago, somebody made her sad."

"Like the time Georgie made me sad when he broke my favourite car?"

Both sisters laugh. "Not quite, darling," says Edith. "But he did break something of mine and, like you did with Georgie, I haven't spoken to him in a very long time."

"I speak to Georgie now," Aoife declares. "You should talk to your friend too. Then you won't be sad."

Edith admires the child's optimism - yet another thing she's inherited from her mother - and smiles tenderly. "No, I don't suppose I would be sad anymore."

"You need the closure?" Sybil asks, sensing that her sister has had an epiphany of sorts.

The older of the two women nods. "Yes," she affirms. "Yes I suppose I do."

**_-xxx-_**

Tom telephones just before five to say that he won't be home until late - he's been assigned to Parliament this week and something big has happened towards the end of the day which needs to make it into tomorrow's first editions. He finally arrives back just after ten, by which time Aoife is fast asleep in bed and Sybil looks as though she's about to be heading the same way.

"You didn't have to wait up for me, you know," he says, handing her a cup of cocoa as is their custom before bed.

"I know, but I wanted to," his wife replies as she cuddles up to him on the settee. "Besides, you quite often do it when I work late."

Tom smiles. "Aoife's been her usual manic self again today then I take it?"

Sybil shakes her head. "Surprisingly calm, actually," she tells him. "Well, at least compared to the past couple of days. No, it's Edith that's troubling me today."

"Edith?"

"Mmm, she came to see me this afternoon."

"What about?"

"You know how she's writing these articles? Well people have been writing her letters and somebody got in touch with her after reading them..."

"Sybil?" he asks as she goes quiet and starts chewing on her bottom lip.

She looks up into her husband's eyes and he struggles to read just what emotions are reflected in them - sadness? Pity? A little bit of anxiety perhaps?

"It was from Anthony... Anthony Strallan."

"Oh," replies Tom, and suddenly comes across as being rather sheepish.

"What?"

"It's just..." he sighs and runs his free hand through his already mussed hair."I saw him today."

Sybil sits up and looks at him in surprise. "You **saw** him?"

Tom nods. "At Westminster. He's not long got back from New Zealand where he was researching various farming methods and their impact on trade. He'd done a couple of months in Australia before that but now he's back and helping a friend in the Commons who is looking to pass some sort of regulation to make things fairer for those who sell their products to others who supply shops and the like, if that makes sense. It was quite interesting and we had a lot to talk about when it came to the plight of the worker..."

"Why? Is it something you're interested in?" Sybil teases with a smirk, earning her a playful dig in the ribs from her husband.

"As I was saying, we were just talking and he mentioned that he'd read Edith's articles."

Sybil furrows her brow. "But she writes under a different name."

"I know," he replies. "But she used to send him letters all the time and he recognises her style of writing, just as you'd probably recognise mine if ever I started using a pen name."

"You **have **used a pen name before," she says. "When you were writing for that underground Republican publication on the side when we first moved to Ireland."

Tom smiles. "Exactly," he replies. "And yet you knew it was me the second you read it. Besides, the story she wrote about the wedding was a dead giveaway, and how many aristocratic families have their very own tame revolutionary?"

"Not many, I imagine."

"And those are the exact words which your father used to describe me one night after dinner just before their wedding. Sir Anthony admitted that he told Edith as much and that must be where she got the term from."

"You always were good at investigative journalism."

"I'm also a reader, and not just of books," he continues. "I could read a car and tell you what was wrong with it and how to fix it..."

Sybil shifts her position on the settee so that she's now sitting at the other end of it with her bare feet in his lap, clutching her mug between her hands. "Perhaps, but these are people, not machines. You can't honestly be suggesting that the same principle applies?"

Tom shrugs. "Why not? What are people but various components which come together to form one single entity. If one part isn't working, they suffer."

"How very romantic. You should think about becoming a poet."

"I'll bear that in mind," he smirks, running a finger up the sole of her foot which he knows she finds to be incredibly ticklish.

"Stop that!" she hisses, trying not to be too loud so as to wake Aoife and jerking her foot away from him. "Back to the point. What are we going to do about Edith and Anthony?"

Now it's Tom's turn to look confused. "I'm sorry; did you just ask what are **we** going to do about Edith and Sir Anthony?"

Sybil nods as she takes a sip of her cocoa, wincing slightly as the hot liquid burns the back of her throat. "You can drop the Sir, you know."

"I know," he replies. "Old habits die hard. I still call your father Your Lordship from time-to-time."

"Yes, but that's because he still hasn't budged even though we've been married for over five years now," she says. "Oh no, I'm wrong... he did say you could call him Lord Grantham."

"Baby steps, love," Tom laughs. "Baby steps. Which is what I think this situation with your sister is going to require."

"So you agree that something needs to be done?"

Tom nods. "I think I do," he tells her. "I could see that it was really bothering him somehow. He wasn't angry that she'd written about it or even upset, but it just almost seems like he needs..."

"Closure," says Sybil, finishing his sentence for him and setting down her now empty mug. "Yes, Edith said as much."

Tom stretches and, leaning on the arm of the settee, props up his head on his elbow and traces abstract patterns across the skin of Sybil's calf. "Well, if it helps, I'm having lunch with him at Westminster on Thursday."

"My my, you **are** moving up in the world."

Her husband laughs. "I best get used to it," he says. "Somebody once told me that getting into politics was a fine ambition."

"Then that person is very wise."

Tom leans forward so that he's practically lying on top of her. "Then I suppose it's a good job I married her."

They share a long, languid kiss then - it's not one that will lead to passionate lovemaking as so many kisses have done before, but one which says so much than words ever could. It's a thank you for being so wonderful, for each being there for and loving the other. Together they have found their happiness and they both want nothing more than to see the people they love find theirs too. The wheels are in motion and a plan is beginning to form...

It's about time to put right what should have been settled all those years ago.


End file.
